The yellow star was no more, for slowly from behind the purple ramparts a glory of silver rays grew up; the purple became amethyst, the sullen cloud-cliffs broke into soft flakes of down; they cradled the rising sun, whose fire flushed their softness; they bore him up until he was full-orbed above the horizon; then suddenly a rent ran across them, and it was day. But the white mist still lay just as thickly on the ground; it was gray with shadows, and the water was cold, and the wide, wide sea of surf-bound marsh was desolate.
A sound came from the bed. My heart stood still. It was so long since we had heard father speak that to hear him now seemed like a voice from the grave.
"Meg," he said, distinctly.
I did not turn. He repeated the word, and it was his own voice, and I went to him. He lay there just as I had left him, excepting that he had turned just a little on his side, so that the portrait of his friend should be the better within his view. The same blue shadow was on his face.
"Meg," said he, slowly, "mother will be very lonely when I'm gone. You will take care of mother."
I sank slowly upon my knees so as to bring my face on a level with his. I wanted to hide it away from him, but by a great effort I kept my gaze upon him.
"Yes," I answered, firmly.
"You've always been a good girl, my right hand," continued he. "Take care of them both."
His voice was getting weak; I could see the drops of perspiration standing on his brow. I tried to get up that I might call mother and Joyce, but he held me fast.